Page 9 of Summer at the Château
‘Nothing in particular. Everything in general. We’re in France, what’s not to celebrate? Besides, it’s the national drink,’ Gwen said, her heart sinking at the look on Pixie’s face. ‘How did it go with the notaire? Was he able to answer your questions?’
Pixie nodded. ‘Most of them, but the answers have opened up a whole lot more, including the fact that Frank has let the cottage to some mysterious woman. I’ll just get a coffee and I’ll tell you all I know.’
Stunned, Gwen watched her go to the counter. Frank had another woman? Ever since Pixie had discovered his secrecy over the château, Gwen had wondered if there was another woman behind it. Initially she’d dismissed the idea, because, unlike her own ex-husband, Frank wasn’t the type to play away from home. Personally, she was going to take convincing that he was guilty of what Pixie clearly thought he was.
Pixie came back with her coffee and sat down heavily. ‘She’s living in the cottage rent-free.’
‘Was the notaire sure?’ Silly question, notaires didn’t make mistakes over things like that.
‘Frank had been to see him twice. The second time, he took this woman with him.’ Pixie took a long drink of her coffee. ‘I knew something was bothering him over the last year. I kept asking what was wrong. He kept brushing me off, saying he was just tired from work and travelling.’ Pixie replaced her cup on its saucer. ‘And all the time he was having a classic midlife crisis ten years late.’
‘You don’t know that for certain,’ Gwen ventured quietly. ‘Maybe he was just giving someone a helping hand in life?’
Pixie threw her an angry look. ‘Then why all the secrecy? He would have told me if that had been the case. I thought the cottage looked too neat and tidy not to be occupied.’ She looked at Gwen, disconcerted by another thought. ‘Do you think whoever she is knows about Frank? The notaire didn’t until I phoned him this week to make the appointment. Perhaps she knows and has left.’ Pixie took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Come on, let’s get this lot back to the château and settle in. At least it seems we’ve got the place to ourselves for Easter. Next week, and the possible return of that woman, will get here soon enough.’ And Pixie grabbed the trolley and started to wheel it towards the exit.
Gwen stayed silent on the journey back to the château, letting Pixie concentrate on her driving, but her thoughts were all about how she could help her daughter, what advice she should give her. As Pixie turned into the château driveway, Gwen came to the conclusion that until they’d met this woman and sussed out what had really been going on, it would be better to forget all about it. As Pixie parked the car, Gwen prepared to get out and help carry the shopping in.
Pixie handed her the bag containing the two Easter eggs. ‘The rest is too heavy for you. Take these and have a search in the kitchen for plates and things. And a kettle. I’ll bring the shopping in and then I’ll take the cases and the bedding stuff up.’
Gwen crossed the fingers of her free hand as she accepted the bag. ‘Pixie darling, please don’t spend the next few days worrying about this mysterious woman and spoil your holiday. I’m sure there will be a simple explanation.’
* * *
After she’d carried all the shopping into the kitchen, Pixie apprehensively plugged in the ancient fridge, which, to her relief, responded with a satisfactory hum.
‘It will take time to cool down, but we can put stuff in there anyway,’ she said, as she left Gwen to unpack the shopping. For the next half-hour, Pixie concentrated on getting the cases upstairs, making the beds, putting towels in the bathrooms and locating the switch for the hot water boiler. She lifted Gwen’s suitcase up on to the top of a chest of drawers to make it easier for her to unpack later before making for her own bedroom.
She’d adored this master bedroom the moment she’d opened the door and walked in for the first time. It was a real French boudoir with its toile de jouy curtains and matching bed linen, thick cream wool rugs on either side of the four-poster bed, an ottoman at its foot and a velvet bedroom chair in front of the carved dressing table. Today, though, the bed was unmade.
Pixie picked up the bedding she’d placed on the chair and concentrated on making the bed. Bottom sheet, pillowcases, duvet. As she moved around the bed, tucking in and smoothing things down, she caught her reflection from time to time in the gold-framed free-standing mirror placed to the side of the large wardrobe. Once the bed was made up, she crossed over to and opened the wardrobe, hoping to find some hangers there for the few clothes she’d packed. There were half a dozen or so empty hangers, alongside ones with clothes already hanging on them. Men’s new clothes. A pair of chinos, jeans, a couple of shirts, a jacket. On the shelves to the side of the hanging space, carefully folded, were a couple of jumpers, a sweatshirt or two and, importantly, three scarves. Seeing the scarves, Pixie knew without any doubt that she was looking at a collection of Frank’s clothes. By the time they’d met and married, Frank, who hated wearing a tie, had already adopted the habit of wearing and tying a scarf like a true Frenchman. He was always adding to his collection.
Pixie reached out and picked up the dark midnight-blue and cashmere scarf. It was one she’d bought for him as a present on a visit to Paris about five years ago. She bunched it up and held it in front of her face and sniffed the soft material. Definitely Frank’s. There was still a hint of the spicy cologne he always wore.
Pixie took a deep breath and replaced the scarf on the shelf before closing the wardrobe door. She’d finish her unpacking later.
Gwen was busy investigating the cupboards of the Breton dresser when Pixie ran downstairs and went into the kitchen.
‘There’s some lovely crockery in here and I found a kettle,’ Gwen said, glancing up. ‘And there’s an old-fashioned built-in larder with marble shelves and some kitchen basics, like rice, chickpeas, tins of peas, et cetera, all within date too. There’s masses of cutlery and table linen in the table drawers. What’s up?’ she added as she registered the unhappy expression on Pixie’s face.
‘I found three of Frank’s scarves in the wardrobe and some new clothes I’ve never seen before,’ Pixie said, a catch in her voice as she looked at Gwen. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘You sure they’re Frank’s?’ Gwen asked. ‘Not Monsieur Quiltu’s?’
‘I’m sure. I bought him all three scarves – including a cashmere one that he always swore was his favourite.’
Gwen looked at her. ‘I’ll go up later and pack them away if you like. There must be a charity shop somewhere we can drop them off after Easter.’
Pixie shook her head. ‘Thanks, Mum, but no. I’ll do it myself later. Right now I’m going to open a bottle of that red wine and organise lunch. Baguette, cheese and cold meats okay? Save the chicken for dinner tonight? Shall we eat on the terrace?’ she asked, glancing out through the French doors. ‘The sun is shining, it should be warm enough.’
The terrace proved to be a suntrap and Pixie went in search of a parasol, opening a door off the kitchen, which she vaguely remembered leading to a boot room and storage area. With a bit of luck, she’d find a parasol or two to keep them cooler in the direct midday sun. There were a number of boots and weatherproof coats hanging in the room, along with extra outdoor chairs and tables. Pixie smiled as she saw several parasols leaning against the wall, as well as a pile of chair cushions. The big cream parasol would be perfect and she dragged its heavy, sand-filled base out to the terrace. By the time she’d opened the parasol and put cushions on two of the chairs, Gwen had placed everything for lunch on the table, poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Pixie.
‘Santé,’ Pixie said as they clinked glasses. ‘Despite all the unanswered questions – here’s to a good Easter.’
Over lunch, Pixie did her best to push all thoughts of Frank out of her mind and relax. ‘I thought we’d spend the rest of the day here and settle in, maybe go for a walk this afternoon, dinner this evening under the stars and then tomorrow we’ll go out for a couple of hours and I’ll show you around. Unless there is somewhere in particular you’d like to go?’ she said, remembering Gwen’s words in Roscoff.
Gwen didn’t rise to the bait. ‘That sounds like a plan,’ she answered with a smile.
Sitting there, glass of wine in hand, Pixie finally relaxed. The Easter weekend had barely begun, so whoever this woman was, living in the cottage, she was unlikely to return before Tuesday at the earliest. In the meantime, Pixie determined that she and Gwen would enjoy living in the château and being in France on holiday. She’d take lots of photographs to remind her of their time here once she had sold the château.
